


only words bleed

by orphan_account



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Hospitalization, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-09 07:14:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6895108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The contents of Iwaizumi Hajime’s wallet: three five-thousand yen notes, several coins of varying values, two credit cards, a drivers’ license, and a single Polaroid photograph of Oikawa Tooru.</p>
            </blockquote>





	only words bleed

**Author's Note:**

> sad iwaoi? sad iwaoi.
> 
> speedfic, written in ~1hr. unbeta'd.

_we keep this love in this photograph_   
_we made these memories for ourselves_   
_where our eyes are never closing_   
_our hearts were never broken_   
_time's forever frozen still_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The contents of Iwaizumi Hajime’s wallet: three five-thousand yen notes, several coins of varying values, two credit cards, a drivers’ license, and a single Polaroid photograph of Oikawa Tooru.

It’s an old, beaten-up thing, from a beach trip in the second year of high school. They’d gotten the camera from a girl in their travel group (who was almost painfully obviously in love with Oikawa, now that he thinks about it), and Oikawa had tried to pose cutely on the beach before a passing hermit crab decided that his toe looked quite pinchable, and pinched it.

Iwaizumi had never used a Polaroid camera before, so the image is slightly shaky, and the lighting’s a bit strange, but it’s a picture of Oikawa, panicked, wide eyes staring at the camera, foot raised, hermit crab still dangling off of it, and Iwaizumi can’t tell who looks more distressed, Oikawa or the crab. Iwaizumi had said, barely stifling a laugh, that he felt too bad to use another sheet of film ( _Iwa-chan, you meanie! You just want an excuse to not take a good picture of me!)_ and had taken the picture for himself under the excuse that Oikawa would burn it in that night’s campfire if he got his hands on it, and that the world needed at least some shred of evidence that Oikawa was really not as perfect as he thought he was.

He’d never gotten around to taking it out of his wallet. (Or maybe he never wanted to.)

(He tries not to think about it, anymore.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I’m going on a trip to America,” Oikawa says, dangling his feet in the water of the local swimming pool. It’s the second week after graduation, the start of their last summer break before college begins. Oikawa’s going to Tokyo, and Iwaizumi’s staying and attending a local university in Miyagi, but for now, they’re still together, inseparable as they have always been since elementary school.

“Why?” Iwaizumi asks.

“Mom said it’s a graduation present,” Oikawa says, and after looking at Iwaizumi’s confused face, gives Iwaizumi a cheeky grin. “Oh, it’s just a month, Iwa-chan! Don’t miss me too much!”

“Who would miss you, Shittykawa?” Iwaizumi grumbles, even as his stomach clenches uncomfortably. _One month less that I have to spend with him_ , his brain (un)helpfully supplies, and he smiles stiffly as Oikawa chatters on about strange foreign cities, New York and Washington D.C. and Los Angeles. 

Oikawa spends the night over at Iwaizumi’s house, playing video games until three in the morning, fueled by junk food and adrenaline, the two of them unceremoniously sugar-crashing on the futon until noon.

Iwaizumi sends him off at the airport three days later, and Oikawa hugs him before he leaves, wrapping him in a bone-crushing vise. His eyes look puffy, like he’s been crying.

“I thought I was the one who was supposed to miss you?” Iwaizumi teases, lifting an eyebrow, and Oikawa sniffles.  

“What a brute, Iwa-chan!” he says, wiping a fake tear from his cheek and waving cheerfully before striding away.

Iwaizumi waits until he sees Oikawa turn into a terminal before leaving, footsteps loud and heavy against the marble tile.

( _Don’t go,_ his heart whispers.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I'll be home soon,” Oikawa whispers with as much strength as he can muster into the receiver, coughing slightly on the last few words. He shivers and pulls the blankets tighter around himself.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Iwaizumi’s voice says, crackly and static-y through the headset, but unmistakably Iwa-chan’s, gruff and caring and _warm_. “I mean, I know you’re there to have fun, but you need to take care of yourself too. Don’t get wasted too much, and if you do drink a lot, make sure you eat and drink a lot of water so that the hangover’s not so bad.”

“My, my, Iwa-chan sure knows lots about these things,” Oikawa trills into the receiver, keeping the tone of his voice buoyant and light, trying to mask its thinness.

“Shut up, Shittykawa,” Iwaizumi grumbles. “Hanamaki told me tell you that, I don’t know anything about that shit. Never had time for it, after taking care of you all the time.”

“Of course,” Oikawa replies, eyelids dropping for a brief second. He’s so exhausted these days, and so cold. A quick glance at the clock tells him the doctors will be coming back in any second for evening rounds. “I’ve got to go now, Iwa-chan! There are places to see, people to drink with!”

"Take care of yourself, you idiot,” Iwaizumi says in lieu of a goodbye, lacking his usual bite, and Oikawa smiles before hanging up.

(He waits until the doctors leave before he starts crying.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Iwaizumi,” his mom says, coming up to the room. She leans against the doorframe, expression unreadable, arms crossed. “The Oikawas are here. Come down to meet them. Look presentable.”

Iwaizumi digs through the piles of clothes on his floor, settling for a dark pair of jeans and a nice button-up. He combs his hair and brushes his teeth before making his way downstairs to the sitting room, where Oikawa’s mother and father sit together on the couch, dressed in black.

“Oikawa passed away yesterday,” Oikawa’s father says without preamble, and Iwaizumi’s eyes widen in shock.

“Was it some kind of accident?” he asks, and Oikawa’s father looks at him, confused, almost affronted.

“Did Oikawa not tell you why he was in America?” he asks.

“He said it was for a graduation trip,” Iwaizumi replies slowly, carefully. In front of him, Oikawa’s mother lets out a muffled sob.

“That child,” Oikawa’s father says, shaking his head as he pats his wife’s back. “I don’t know why he didn’t tell you.”

“Tell me what?” Iwaizumi asks, leaning forward. He’s on the verge of leaping off his seat altogether and grabbing Oikawa’s father by the shoulders and shaking him violently, but of course, he can’t do that, so he stays where he is, desperation written across his face.

“He was in America undergoing a novel treatment for a rare, aggressive form of lung cancer,” Oikawa’s father says, clearly straining to keep his voice even. “It was an experimental process. There was only a small chance of success, but it was the best we could ask for.”

He slides a plain black wallet across the table, and Iwaizumi rests his hand on it, uncomprehending.

“Oikawa wanted you to have this.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The contents of Oikawa Tooru’s wallet: a single, white envelope, addressed to a certain Iwaizumi Hajime.

Iwaizumi opens the envelope in his room. He can still hear the adults downstairs, Oikawa’s mother’s sobs loud and clear now, Iwaizumi’s mother speaking in a soothing voice. He rips the seal with trembling fingers, and draws out a Polaroid, the size and shape of the film exactly the same as the one he carries in his own wallet. This photo is a night scene, in front of a campfire, stars blinking in the background against a velvet-black sky. At the center of the picture is Iwaizumi, a gentle smile on his face, gazing into the fire, in soft focus against the background. It’s a photo of considerable skill, the lighting and the definition clearly the work of a practiced photographer.

A piece of paper drifts out from the envelope. _Thank you for everything_ , it reads, and on the back, _I love you_.

Iwaizumi reaches across his desk for his own simple wallet, brown and weather-beaten, and pulls out his own picture. He looks at it, the frantic look on Oikawa’s face, his hair that somehow managed to stay as perfect as always in the whole commotion, flailing limbs that somehow still managed to look graceful. A rare genuine photograph of Oikawa: strong, healthy, whole.

(And finally, he weeps.)

**Author's Note:**

> song is [photograph](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f00fgKzRtdo) by ed sheeran.
> 
> come talk to me on [tumblr](http://ochakous.tumblr.com) or [twitter](http://twitter.com/daisugas)!


End file.
